Test of Honour
by Lettered
Summary: Danielle tells Henry she is a commoner in one of the earlier scenes. Taking into account that change, some scenes from the movie follow.
1. Default Chapter

A/N: When she gives Prince Henry 'a name', she does not say countess. At their next meeting, she informs him that she is in fact a commoner. Some scenes of the movie take place, involving these changed circumstances . . .

I'm not sure about the spelling of de Lancret. I saw this spelling in another fic and liked it, so here it is. I'm not being that big on accuracy, in case you couldn't tell...and I don't think Spenser was alive yet in this time...and I'm imposing John Locke onto Thomas More...so sue me.

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"The only name I can give you is Nicole de Lancret."

De Lancret. A baroness? A countess? Duchess, marquise, viscountess? The lack of title made finding her that much harder. It could be a commoner's name, for all anyone—even his mother's hand maid, who's job it was to know everyone—knew of it, except that it had been a courtier who had given it to him. He mulled over this as he traipsed through the woods in attempts to reach another side of the pond. Signore da Vinci had fallen approximately—yes, there, and so would be coming to shore here, in a bit, and—

Who . . . ?

"My lady," he exclaimed, realizing that the drenched woman beside the signore was none other than the object of his thoughts.

Her eyes widened as she recognized him and she abruptly flopped down into the water. Henry strode into the pond to grab her hand, pulling her up. "Watch out," she admonished him, chagrined. "It's very slippery just . . . there."

Henry blinked, smiled, and removed his cloak. For a moment, he had thought Nicole—yes, he already called her that in his thoughts—beautiful, noble Nicole, had been trying to kneel to him. It was unnecessary, for someone of her station. Then again, her fresh face, her forward speech, reminded him of the country. She was, as she had said, visiting a cousin. She probably wasn't from around here; hadn't, he supposed, even been introduced at Court, which was why, he assumed, he didn't recognize her. He found her innocence refreshing.

Dripping, and shivering a little, Danielle was staring at the proffered cloak. Purple was a royal colour. What would he do if he knew he was offering such richness to a mere commoner? He had called her 'my lady'. She had not told him she was a courtier, but she had been dressed like one. She had given him her mother's name, so he wouldn't find her—and even though she had not said it was her own name, she had purposely misled him. And flat out, she had told him she was visiting a cousin, and she was certainly not doing anything of the sort. She shivered a little, and this time not from the cold. She had lied to him—to the Crown Prince of France.

Her eyes were blue and fiery. What, he wondered, had he done this time? Frustrated by the challenging way in which she was staring at him, Henry stepped forward—minding, with a silent chuckle, the spot she had said was slippery—and threw his cloak about her himself. He pushed his finger-tips into the small of her back, guiding her to the dry shore. Signore da Vinci was already forgotten for the moment.

Danielle shuddered a little again as she felt the heavy, soft cloak settle about her shoulders. It was warm, and she could smell him in it. And the five points of his fingers on her back were a deeper heat pressing into her, one she was not sure she liked. She had rarely felt so aware of anyone except her father, whose breathing she had always been able to distinguish with her eyes closed, whose moods she had been able to tell with just a glance, just a thought, just a feeling.

She watched as da Vinci went and made himself busy with his cart, muttering about leaving walking on water to those gifted with divinity. She felt deserted. He was a sharp old man, but had kind eyes, and the way he had spoken to her after he'd surprised her in the water—explaining the shoes, laughing, and teasing her about swimming, like a nymph in Spenser's poems—had set her at ease. Now she was again left floundering.

"Where are all your attendants?" the prince asked, peering into her eyes.

"I . . ." Danielle trailed off. She toyed with the idea of maintaining the charade, with the idea of claiming she _was _a noblewoman and that she had merely given her servants a day off. But what if he should see her again? How would she lie that time? And what if—heaven forbid—he should _want _to see her again? What should she do then?

Strangely, the thought did not only produce concern. Suddenly, she was toying with ideas of him seeking her out, and her welcoming him . . . Not because he was a prince. Not even because he was handsome—handsome? she thought, looking at him with surprise. Yes, she noticed for the first time, he was handsome. Handsome in a domineering, arrogant way, but his hands were large and—well, his hair looked thick and—and his eyes, well . . . were burning holes into her . . .

Danielle shook her head. At any rate, it wasn't because of all _that _that the idea of him wanting to see her again was so appealing. It was just that—well, he had read Thomas More. And despite his dismissal of _Utopia, _he had actually cared enough to read it, remember it, and understand it. And she so rarely got the chance for intelligent debate, to speak her mind, to . . .

He was looking at her oddly, those commanding gray eyes demanding her answer. "I don't have any attendants," she blurted out, and looked down.

"I can see that," he said, smiling slightly, reaching out to tug his cloak yet more firmly around her. "I'm asking where they are. Or don't you know?"

He was teasing her, she realized, and he wasn't going to understand. She sighed a little. She was risking her life—and quite possibly even Maurice's—to reveal that she was merely a commoner. But she did have a weapon—a good head on her shoulders, and a good tongue for argument. She felt pretty confident that she could get out of this without dire consequences. Royal pride, after all, did not like to be embarrassed. "I meant, my Lord," she said, tilting her head, "that I do not possess attendants. I never have, not since I was very young."

The prince looked sardonic for a moment. "Are you telling me—"

"You have mistaken me, my Lord. I am a mere commoner," she said simply, and this time, effected the proper obeisance without slipping down into mud and water.

Because she was on her knees and her head was bent, she did not see the walls slam down in his eyes. "What—?" he spluttered. "What is the meaning of this?" When Daniel remained bowed before him, he demanded, his voice almost petulant: "Stand up! Stand up and look at me." She was slow to obey. He was not used to not being obeyed promptly—even by courtiers.

When she at last lifted her head, he saw that her eyes were still blazing. "A commoner . . .?" he repeated stupidly, looking at her. She was, most certainly, the same woman who had stood before him the day before, in pearls, satin, and lace—the woman who had told him, roundly and sharply, that he—he! the Crown Prince of France!—was arrogant, the woman who had kept him awake more than half the night with thoughts of her eyes, her lips, her voice, but most of all her words.

She had told him, in effect, to open up his eyes. He had and he was looking right at her, not knowing what to think. And so he said the first thought that came to his mind: "Where did you get the garments of a courtier, then, and twenty francs to save . . . save that—who? Your fellow servant?" He was growing angrier by the minute; her presumption beginning to penetrate his consciousness. "Your father, your uncle—your husband?"

"Maurice is the steward of an estate, and the husband of the house keeper there," she replied, her voice low, and remarkably full of venom. "The dress belonged to my step-mother, so there was no illegality in borrowing it. The twenty francs, you will remember—"

"Were from me," he said slowly, in realization. And then his voice became hard, an accusation: "I remember. The apple," he spat, and brought a hand to his forehead in memory. It still hurt a little. She certainly had good aim, for such a pretty— Henry grit his teeth. His rage at having been so easily duped—upon being deceived, no less, was slow in coming through the shock, but now it was starting to hit full force. "Do you know you can be imprisoned for impersonation? For even looking me in the eye? These are crimes, my—"

He found that his voice had risen, and intense anger had made him unreasonable—he stopped just short of again giving her—a peasant-woman, apparently!—the title of 'my lady'. He shut his eyes for a moment and tried to regain his composure. It wasn't, he knew, that she had broken the laws of impersonation, or even that she had spoken directly to him, even though she was merely a commoner. He could care less about laws regarding servants, thieves, and anything to do with Thomas More; he was prince and he could talk to whom he pleased—and shut up whom he pleased, even his father. What truly made him angry was the embarrassment. She had quite simply fooled him into thinking she was of importance. What was more, he had been . . . attracted to her. She really had kept him up half the night. A commoner.

No wonder his father wanted him married to Spain as soon as possible.

"Madam," he began again, his voice low and harsh. "You try my patience. I should have you sent to the Americas for this."

"But you won't," came the steady reply. Startled, the prince was jerked out of his dark anger for enough moments to listen. Danielle had hoped it wouldn't come to this—it was, after all, almost a sort of black-mail, but there was no other choice. She had had to pretend to be a courtier to save Maurice, and it was the prince's own fault for having been fooled by her. He would have to accept the consequences of his actions. "Many people saw me beg for my friend's release. They saw me, and saw you help me. They also saw that we spoke directly, as if on somewhat equal terms. They also saw," she continued, looking away, "that you followed me and demanded my name." She swallowed a sigh as she looked at her dirty toes. "You would not want to embarrass the Royal name by having it revealed that you allowed a commoner, no less, to deceive you."

She had hit the nail on the head. It was the shame to his pride he could not stand, not the fact that she had broken any laws. "Who says I would have to reveal it? The Crown has it's ways, madam. I could have you shipped off to the Americas—even killed—with no one to know who you were or what you did. No one would ever know."

Danielle's jaw dropped a little, and she realized suddenly the danger of the situation. Here she was, trying to tell the Prince of France he couldn't touch her for fear of embarrassing the Crown, all the while forgetting the Prince _was _the Crown—and that he could do anything he wanted. She suddenly remembered More and his lamentations that a corrupt authoritarian made for a corrupt state, and that was the root of the problem with absolute monarchy. She realized in a moment of crystal clarity that More was really very right—and that suddenly, all his ideas applied to her more than they ever had.

And yet, the prince had not seemed like a corrupt man. She chanced a glance up, fear showing in her eyes, and saw fury blazing back at her.

Seeing the horror in her eyes, Henry stepped back a pace. He was, of course, only playing the devil's advocate. He wanted to scare her, wanted to get back at her for having made a fool of him—not kill her, nor even ship her off to the Americas. She had, after all, only tricked him to help save a friend, and that was worthy of reward, not punishment. He wished he could love enough, merely _feel _enough, to risk that kind of danger for another person. The deep damned truth of it was: he was jealous. He was jealous of a peasant girl for feeling more than he could. He had shut that feeling off, set his teeth, and determined that that would not get the better of this conversation.

And yet, now that he had indeed scared her, he realized it was not what he had wanted at all. There was something about those clear, liquid blue eyes blinking afraid of him that made his insides twist with a burning sensation that was anything but comfortable. She had faced him—twice, now, with conviction, and very little fear in the face of all his royal bluster. He had threatened her today and she had merely lifted her head and told him that he wouldn't do it, he couldn't—as if she wouldn't let him. Her argument had been faulty, but he had to admire her courage. Very few women—hell, very few men—would have stood up to someone of his position with such determination, such fire. Then again, very few people would risk their lives to save a servant, either.

He did not know what to think of that. His feelings confused him; he hated her for fooling him and for facing him with so little respect, and yet that warred with something very close to . . . admiration, in his heart. It reminded him very much of when Laurent would find him after his latest exploit. He was always determined to feel no shame in having run away, and yet his mother's dismay, his father's anger, and Laurent—the only role-model he really had—Laurent's disappointment, always made him feel guilty. At the same time he always wished he'd gotten away with it. In the end, he always just wanted to forget the whole ordeal, because it upset everyone so, and because in the end, it had done no good—he was still a failure.

In the same way, he wished he could just forget this—forget the beautiful courtier that had haunted him last night, forget this dripping woman standing before him, wearing his cloak. And for the love of God, he wished he could stop looking at her lips.

"You may go," he said idly, flicking his wrist.

Without either of them noticing, Signore da Vinci had approached them and was looking from one to the other with not a little understanding of the situation. "What, so soon? I thought the lady might want to try my flying contraption."

"I'm not a—"

"She's not a lady," Henry said harshly, sparing Danielle a glance, and wishing once again that he had never laid eyes on her.

"Surely you're not a man?" Leonardo ventured innocently, peering at Danielle. He straightened and regarded Henry reprovingly.

Danielle shrugged out of the cloak and extended it back to the prince. "Thank you, your highness," she said, bowing down once again. "I'm sorry you were under misapprehensions when you lent it to me. Good day to you both."

She was about to spin around when Henry caught her arm. She was still wet, and the warmth of him sank right through to her skin. For a moment, he actually considered asking her to stay, to forget the whole business. He wanted to pretend, for the space of the afternoon, that they were just people—just the two of them, just a man and a woman. He had never wanted to be a prince; he was always trying to escape it; what did it matter that she was a commoner? But it was no use. Suppose she was just as engaging, passionate, fascinating has she had seemed that day she saved her servant, or even as she seemed just now? What then? There could be nothing between them. For all his dreaming, he _was _a Prince, and always would be. It was better, in the end, to just pretend she didn't exist. "Here," he said, thrusting the still-warm and slightly damp cloak back into her arms. "You keep it."

"I never wanted your pity, my Lord." She pushed it back at him and turned away.

"Wait!" He took two steps toward her, but she was already crashing through the woods. It was, after all, hopeless.

Signore da Vinci looked at Henry with a frown. "You sure handled that one well, my boy. You let her get away."

Henry sighed, clutching the fabric in his hands. He contemplated putting it back on, but it was wet—and furthermore, it smelled of fresh water, of herbs and earth and a trace of cinder. It smelled of her, and he never wanted to smell that smell again. "Let's go," he told Signore da Vinci.

"Where?" Leonardo asked, again feigning cluelessness.

"Home."

"Yes, I knew that. As I said: where?"

Henry scowled. "What do you mean? Where else?"

"Home," da Vinci explained, lifting a brow, "is where the heart is. Already a cliché phrase, but very very true."

Henry scowled, and turned around, forging ahead along the path to the castle. Da Vinci shrugged, and followed along behind.


	2. chapter 2

A/N: Since this is an AU anyway, I took the liberty of rearranging the times both Le Pieu and Prince Henry visit the servants at the market-stall (after the tennis match). I regret there isn't much Danielle and Henry in this chapter, but I had to split the scene up somewhere. There's more in the next.

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Danielle had never much liked market-day. She loved her father's manor and his estate, but even though selling the produce of its land kept it up and running, she did not like leaving it, even for a day. Oh, she had done her share of wandering past its borders, exploring the country-side, but to her, that was her land too. She had made it her own.

Town, however, had never had much appeal for her. It was crowded and dirty, and always felt far more intrusive than the peaceful quiet of home. The market itself was interesting, and she liked the shopping. She liked pretty clothing; she liked the way expensive satins and silks felt against her skin; she liked the way pearls and rubies sparkled. But if given a choice, she'd probably rather be caring for the estate or playing with Gustav or walking on her own through the woods than shopping for such things.

Furthermore, on market days, they rarely made enough to sustain the expenses of the manor, much less enough to spend on a little shopping. What made it far worse was that on these days, her step-mother and sisters, apparently not realizing this, came into town and always spent a great deal of the manor's profits on worthless things like brooches and jewelry. Danielle didn't even know where they came up with the other half of the money for such things. She didn't even like to think about it, because the conclusions she drew were too awful to even be considered.

And lastly, market-day meant the inevitable altercation with Monsieur Le Pieu.

In short, she hated the man. He was aggressive, unkind, and despicable, and always insulted the manor, and quite often her father and herself—though his one redeeming quality seemed to be that he alone noticed and cared what a state her father's property had fallen into. Worst of all, he looked at her so often in ways that made her . . . uncomfortable. She was more than well aware that he was leering at her, that the look in his eyes and the resonance in his voice wanted something more from her than she was even close to giving, but what she couldn't understand was _why. _

She was just a commoner, forced into a servant's position. She was dirty and ill-dressed, and was rude to him beyond all belief. Besides which, he was more than twenty years her senior. Though she knew young women sometimes married very old, or kept very old lovers—as intimated by even the prince's sneering comment about Maurice—he couldn't really think that she would willingly . . . what frightened her the most was that she was convinced he didn't need her to be willing.

Danielle sighed, arranging the apples in their stall, and tried to forget the whole business. Instead, she tuned herself into the gossip between Paulette and Louise, who had been chatting without her really hearing.

"At least the Baroness and Marguerite are with the prince today. That means if they're spending any money, they're spending his!" Paulette concluded jovially.

"My step-mother and Marguerite are with the prince?" Danielle asked, surprised.

"Haven't you been listening?" Paulette asked, putting her hand on her hip and smiling at someone who was inspecting the cabbages.

"Always with her head in the clouds, you know that, Paulie," Louise rejoined, smiling gently at Danielle and winking at Paulette, a twinkle in her eye.

"It's true that," Paulette said, considering. "Get that 'un, it's the best of the bunch; you want to get the good ones before they're all rotted," she explained to the customer, rearranging the cabbages. "Anyway, apparently Marguerite made an impression at the tennis match—you heard about that, didn'tcha? With the Marquis de Limoges?"

"Yes," Danielle replied, smiling ruefully. "I remember that. How could I forget the dresses flying around this morning?" Paulette and Marie chuckled. "So, she made an impression, did she?"

Danielle reflected on what she felt about that. Nothing, she supposed. The prince could do as he liked. If they ever did meet again, he could pretend that she didn't exist, and she could pretend that she was the ignorant servant she was. Though he had threatened her by the pond, she felt sure that his subsequent actions—or inaction—had proven that he would do nothing to punish her conduct. His embarrassment, and her misdeed, were behind them both. They could move on with their lives. And if he was stupid enough to be taken with Marguerite . . . well, then, she truly felt sorry for him.

"She caught the ball," Louise explained.

"Personally, I think that was a set up. I think she got a ball before-hand so if it ever went off court she could hold it up and say lookee here, and that poor prince would be forced to come take it off her hands. She—"

"Poor Prince?"

Paulette shrugged. "I feel sorry for anyone she tries to be nice to. It's bad enough when she _doesn't _like you."

Danielle laughed, and was about to say something, when she heard her step-sister's voice: "And these are our servants." Danielle's eyes flew wide open. If her step-sister was here, that meant the other De Ghents were here, and if they were here . . . Danielle took a tottering step back. She recognized the voice who was answering Marguerite, too, and it wasn't the baroness or Jacqueline. It was, in fact, a man. The Prince of France, to be precise.

Danielle hurriedly turned back to the chickens, thinking maybe she could avoid recognition. She hadn't, after all, told him her name or her family's name that day at the lake. Over the squawking of the chickens, she heard Henry tell Paulette and Marie that it was lovely to meet them, and he went on chatting for a moment with Marguerite and the baroness. Danielle bit her lip. If the prince really _was _interested in Marguerite, he would either find out that Danielle was her step-sister, or she would have to hide every time she saw him for the rest of her life. If he married Marguerite—heaven forbid—he would _have _to find out. To avoid it she would have to run away or give up the manor, and she was not about to do either.

She decided, quite abruptly, to simplify the situation, as she had before at the lake. It was no use trying to keep up an elaborate deception, and the consequences were always the worse for it anyway. And so, resolute, she thrust the last chicken into the coop under their market-stand and turned around.

For a moment, the prince went on talking to Marguerite, finishing what he was saying before facing the last person he had sensed turning around at his side. For the next moment, he simply stared, his eyes narrowing and his breathing coming oddly as he at last took in Danielle as she really was.

"That's Danielle," Rodmilla said dismissively. "Is it possible your Highness would be interested in looking at the jewelry? That stand over there is where we bought Marguerite's brooch the other day."

"I thought you had had it for years?" Henry said, sparing a glance for Rodmilla.

The baroness, flustered, looked around. "I meant the brooch that Marguerite is wearing today, Highness," she murmured, her hand fluttering up to her breast, as if in confusion. Henry's gaze, however, had reverted to Danielle.

Jacqueline, looking between Danielle and the prince, noticed his interest, and, trying to be helpful, said cheerfully, "She's our step-sister."

Marguerite thrust her foot back to land it on Jacqueline's, who winced, but all not before Henry said, "Who?" and looked curiously between Jacqueline, the baroness, and Danielle.

The baroness laughed a little. "Jacqueline, dear," she said, her voice cheerful but with a quality of the dangerous beneath it, "they're selling the sweets and cheeses on the other end of the street. Why aren't you there already?"

Jacqueline rolled her eyes and flounced down the road. Henry looked after her with a scowl. "You have a step-daughter, Baroness de Ghent?" Henry asked. His tone had the effect of mere inquisitiveness, and yet, there was a hint of the dangerous here as well. "Why had I never met her? Or even heard of her?"

"Well, you see, your Highness," the baroness answered, smiling half-heartedly and glancing at Danielle, who could see through the glance that she was wishing her step-daughter had worn something nicer. "Danielle isn't of noble blood. I married her father—a silk merchant, my Lord, and a farmer, but how could I help it? I was young and in love, and you know how these things go. How could I know he was so close to ruin? I was only concerned about being with him and establishing a father for my two beloved daughters . . ."

"The point, madam?" Henry asked, a mask of politeness over his face.

"The point is, I married him and he died a fortnight later," she said sharply. Her voice was indignant now, a whip of sound. Danielle had never heard her explain her relationship with her father before. A part of her didn't want to hear it. A part of her wanted her father and the Baroness to have truly loved each other . . . she clung to it as an excuse for all Rodmilla's behavior. Anyone who had loved her father, and whom he had loved back, couldn't be all bad. "I've cared for Danielle as my own," the baroness snapped, though her voice was polite, "even though I barely knew her father,--and, well, you see how she repays me," she said, gesturing at Danielle. "I suppose it's what comes, being raised by a man."

Her step-mother said that often. Part of it was true—she had, in the earlier days, tried to convince Danielle to dress nicer and act more properly, in the days in which she had still wanted to carouse about in the mud with Gustave. But as time worn on, Danielle had watched her step-mother let her father's manor fall into ruin, and she had taken its upkeep into her own hands—even if that meant working in the fields just like a servant.

The baroness had scolded her about the unlady-like behavior, but by then, it had already been too late. There hadn't even been the money to provide Danielle with the accessories and attire of the daughter of landed gentry, step-daughter of a baroness. There wasn't money for Jacqueline and Marguerite, either, but they were not about to sacrifice, and their mother wasn't about to let them. And as money began seeping out of the manor, more and more of the help and servants had left. And then it had come to the point where her step-mother decided, that if they weren't going to be waited on by any of their servants, they would be waited on by her own daughter. All, the baroness said, because she was willful, and had been raised by a man.

Henry seemed to accept the explanation, and nodded absently. The look he spared for Danielle, however, was anything but. He looked angry. Very angry.

He went on chatting with the baroness about the estate and the manner, and Marguerite went on making doe eyes at him, telling him he was ever so knowledgeable about business matters. Danielle had settled herself to arranging and rearranging the nuts and berries on the other side of the stall, half-listening to the conversation without drawing attention to herself. She was still unsure of what, exactly, the prince's reaction had been to seeing her. She had more than half expected disgust, and hadn't been prepared for the anger in his eyes when he had looked her over after knowing that she was the baroness's step-daughter.

And the questions he posed to the baroness, she realized, were tending toward a purpose. She wasn't sure what it was, but he wasn't merely being polite. He was trying to find something out. The baroness, for the most part, was clueless about his questions regarding the farm. Danielle could have told him far more—she ran the place, these days. She almost had since her father died.

It was just then that Monsieur Le Pieu approached. He had come from the other side of the market-stand, not seeing the Prince, and was examining the vegetables and fruits in their cart. The look on his face was disapproving. The leer in his eyes, as he lifted his to hers, was unmistakable. "Danielle de Barbarac," he announced, half under his breath, directing is coiling voice towards her with an intimacy that sent shivers down her spine. "You get prettier every week."

The prince, Marguerite, the baroness, and all the royal attendants were lingering on the other side of the stall, the nobles chatting and the attendants peering on with interest, eager to catch any intrigue or gossip they could so they could relate it back later to friends—or customers. Paulette and Louise were looking on, a bit in awe at standing so close to royal blood. Hearing tell of him from Danielle—who had called him insufferable so often—was far different than actually seeing him, and they were both rooted to their spots in fear and fascination. If anyone saw Le Pieu they assumed he was a customer examining the strawberries.

"And you, Monsieur le Pieu, are wasting your flattery," Danielle told him firmly, and moved farther down the line of their stall, away from him—and away from the prince and the rest. She did not want them to hear the kind of comments le Pieu was prone to make. Part of her feared that if her step-mother learned that the wealthy land-owner was interested in her, something dreadful would happen. Danielle did not want that thing to happen—most of all, she didn't want to believe the woman her father had married was capable of it.

"It's a pity your soil is the best in the province and yet so poorly tended," le Pieu remarked.

It was his form of small talk—disparaging the manor and her father's land. He was playing on her guilt, she knew. Maybe he thought she would eventually let him do what he wanted if he restored her father's home to its former glory. She would, of course, never do any such thing, but his comments about the land were very true, and she could not help but let such comments pierce her. However, she merely ignored him, as was her wont, and went on stacking the baskets of berries and dried fruits.

"And the manor itself, I noticed, is falling into pitiful disrepair," he continued. "Your father, you know, would have been—"

"Don't you say a word about my father," Danielle snapped, her voice low, glancing to where the prince and the rest still chatted. She was not above calling wolf, if he tried anything funny—or if he insulted her father one more time.

As if aware of the danger of a public scene, Le Pieu moved along the wooden counter of the stall, closer to her, and leaned in, his greasy moustache almost touching her. "I may be twice your age, child, but I am . . . well endowed." He leaned back, then, grinning sardonically. "As well evidenced by my estate," he went on. "I have a soft spot for the less fortunate. You are in need of a wealthy benefactor . . . and I need a young lady with spirit."

Danielle heard the offer—and invitation—in his voice, and wanted to throw her basket in his face. Instead, she merely said brightly, "Prunes?"

"No," Le Pieu replied, turning away as if the fruits smelled bad, obviously put off. It had, after all, been her intention. "I'll buy nothing this week. And you'd do well to remember that without my generosity, your pathetic little farm would cease to exist. I'd consider my options, if I were you," he said, leaning in again. And, because they were near the back of the stall, against the wall of the market-place where very few people could see them, he leaned yet closer and grabbed her wrist. "You're a ripe fruit for the plucking, Danielle," he told her, a sneer in his voice. "Produce like this," he went on, touching her cheek, "is worth a great deal. I'm only asking you to consid—"

"Why don't you leave the lady alone now?" a laconic voice interrupted.

"I'm not a la—"

"She's not a . . . Sire," Le Pieu observed dryly, making his obeisance. "Forgive me, I didn't see you there. I'm afraid you've caught me in the middle of a . . .business transaction."

"Business?" Prince Henry asked, shock and disgust in his voice. "Unhand her at once."

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	3. chapter 3

A/N: I didn't know there was a novelization and I haven't read it, so some things in this story might not be accurate to the novel. However, I would still really appreciate it if you all tell me if I do something different than the novel, in case I make any big mistakes—so thanks!

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**from Chapter 2:**

_"Why don't you leave the lady alone now?" a laconic voice interrupted._

_"I'm not a la—"_

_"She's not a . . . Sire," le Pieu observed dryly, making his obeisance. "Forgive me, I didn't see you there. I'm afraid you've caught me in the middle of a . . .business transaction."_

_"Business?" Prince Henry asked, shock and disgust in his voice. "Unhand her at once."_

* * *

Le Pieu turned, as if only just noticing that his hand had trailed down from her cheek to grip the soft flesh of Danielle's arm. The Baroness was looking on in amazement, as was everyone else. The prince's attention had seemed to be wandering in the last few minutes, but no one had really been able to tell where it had been wandering to, because his eyes had remained fixed on Marguerite and the baroness. And yet, it seemed as if he was trying to listen to another conversation at the same time. In the end, it turned out that he had been listening to Danielle negotiate with one of their best customers.

But why? What was Danielle to a prince? Perhaps, the baroness considered, swallowing a sigh, Le Pieu had made the move he had been threatening to make on Danielle for this past whole year. Part of her wished he just would, then Danielle would be out of her hair. But what was that to the prince? Why was it that that girl always called attention to herself, in every situation?

As the baroness considered this, the prince grew impatient. "I said _now_!" he exploded at Le Pieu, sudden fury evident in his voice.

"I'm afraid there's been some mistake," Le Pieu replied easily, his gritty voice half arrogant, half placating. His hand had eased on Danielle's arm, but it still rested there—casually, as if on a possession. Danielle frowned and jerked away. Le Pieu tossed her a look of scorn and returned his attention to the Prince. "This is not a lady, but a servant who tends the land _my _purchases help to thrive. She is merely a commoner, my Lord, sunk to a pitiable state, and I have showered mercy upon her. I was a friend of her father's—"

"You were _never _a friend of my father's. You were never a friend to _any _of us. We despise you, have always despised you, will always despise you—"

"Danielle!" the baroness interjected, at last realizing that it was necessary that she and Marguerite be a part of this scene, or else they would lose the prince's attention on Marguerite completely. Besides, she couldn't have Danielle making a spectacle in front of the prince—or Le Pieu. Though her notions of economy were vague, at best, she did know that Le Pieu's business—both through the market and under the table—were what kept her daughters clothed, groomed, and fed to their standards. To lose his patronage would be unthinkable, especially if loud, obnoxious complaints from Danielle were to risk Marguerite's chances with the prince. "Stop that at once! You know Monsieur Le Pieu—"

"I was a friend of her father's," Le Pieu continued smoothly, noticing that the prince's eyes hadn't left him and Danielle, and that the baroness was going on, virtually ignored by everyone. "And this is how she repays me." He gestured idly, with a flick of his wrist, at Danielle, who was glaring at him with hatred. "I have been attempting to oversee her father's estate . . . if only this little wild cat would let me, Sire. You see my predicament."

"I see it," Henry said, drawing himself up. "I see it quite plainly."

"Well then, my Lord," Le Pieu replied, smirking a little and dropping another half a bow. He looked up to find the prince's eyes still resting on him, and his smile grew more snide and self-satisfied. "Perhaps it's possible that _you _could help _me—"_

"I will help you do one thing, and one thing only," Henry replied steadily, his voice steel. "That is, to take your conniving hands _off _that woman, and to never threaten her, or even come _near _her again. If I even so much as hear of it, I would not only have you stripped of all ranks, lands, and titles, but you would be at _my _mercy, and believe me, monsieur, my mercy is not so . . . generous as you profess yours to be."

Le Pieu's lip slowly curled, but his hand dropped off of Danielle, and his eyes dropped away from the prince's. He bowed again, this time in an almost mocking way, removing his hat in a dramatic gesture. "I'm sorry my humble negotiations couldn't tempt you, your highness." He slammed his hat back on and began to walk away, but stopped before passing the prince, and said, so directly that Henry couldn't help but be surprised by his bravado, "The Crown is free to seize all goods promised me. In fact, I welcome you to her. She'll hiss and spit at you just as happily as she ever did at me."

Prince Henry might have struck him then, just for the insolence of that comment, but he held himself in check. He was outraged, but not only at Pierre Le Pieu. In fact, Le Pieu was a mere insect in the torrent of his rage. How something like this could be going on under the household of a name like de Ghent—how he could have just spent three hours in the company of the baroness and her daughters and heard nothing of the outrages being committed in this very market-place—most of all, how everyone could have just been standing there, ignoring that slime touching a woman who didn't want to be touched—in public, no less—how, when he had brought attention to it, everyone had merely stood there, accepting it—it was not to be borne.

"Why was a stop not put to this?" he demanded, of Danielle, of the baroness, of the attendants, of the crowd in general that had gathered. When no one answered, he clarified. "Why is it that a man was allowed to harass this woman—in_ public sight, _no less_—_with no one putting a stop to it?" When still, no one answer, he felt like stomping his royal foot and commanding them to give him his way. Instead, he pinned the baroness with a stare. "Why would you let a man who _dares _to threaten a member of your household step anywhere _near _this stall? Why weren't authorities contacted?"

"Because the authorities don't care," a voice he recognized said, steady and forthright. His gaze whipped around to meet her blue eyes, which, as ever, were snapping fire and challenging his own. Danielle didn't have any problem with talking back to him. She obeyed her step-mother and it was true, only very rarely lashed out against her step-sisters; to them, she rarely spoke her thoughts. But the difference between their provocation and that of the prince was that she wanted her step-mother to love her—she could care less about the prince. He was someone who could effect so much change, and yet went about his petty ways like a spoiled child, eyes closed to all the good he could do around him. He was someone to whom she owed nothing, and so she spoke her mind.

"The authorities," she clarified, her voice clipped, "protect the Crown and the Crown's concerns. Is France really concerned—do you suppose, your Highness—with its people, their freedoms, and their right not to be harassed?" Danielle, breathing heavily, looked around wearily. "Or rather, is the Crown concerned with its wayward Prince, who doesn't even _want _the Crown?"

She was accusing him, he realized, with a surge of righteousness. The woman—streaked in dirt and cinders, no less—was actually accusing him of royal negligence in the middle of a busy street. Indignation began to burn in him with the strength that surprised him. He wanted to argue with her; he felt strangely energized, invigorated, almost excited. He wanted to raise to her challenge and debate with her, to find out how she thought the system could be improved, to find out more about the indecencies suffered by people such as she because people such as he hadn't taken the time to notice. He wanted to—

She never gave him the chance. She didn't care, at the moment, that it was well enough to argue with the prince in courtier's clothes in level tones, with everyone at a distance; and that it was another thing entirely to fly at him so unreasonably in the middle of the market-place, smeared with soot and sporting a gown of rags. She was too angry to pause and be decorous. "Why did you send him away?"

"What?" he asked, confused, and suddenly feeling deflated.

"That man," she expanded, gesturing in the direction of Pierre le Pieu, "is the only reason my father's land still belongs to . . . to us." It was a difficult balance, the matter of Le Pieu. She never encouraged his advances, and did all she could to let him know how much he disgusted her. And yet, she had never tried too hard to find a way to get rid of him—there were ways, she suspected; she could do anything if she put her mind to him—because he was, in the end, the one who, for the most part, kept the farm up and running. She would give much—even suffering the weekly arguments that ensured from letting Le Pieu know how much she despised him—if it meant she maintained her father's land.

"That scum," Prince Henry corrected, disdain in his voice, "insulted you, threatened you, and—and . . ." and touched you, he wanted to say. He couldn't express how much it had sickened him, seeing that man's filthy hand touch this woman. He recalled how his own hand had rested on her arm in much that same way, there, by the lake, and how soft she had felt beneath his fingers. Whatever her name or title, he still felt outrage at seeing the likes of that man touching her. No woman should have to suffer being touched in that way, if she didn't ask for it.

"No person should stand for that," he told her, voicing his thoughts. "Surely there are other ways for your estate to earn money than off of _him." _

"How am I to loan money or labor, in my position?" Danielle countered, spreading her hands. "The Crown seems to be more interested in making money in the Americas than its people here."

"Danielle, is this really any way to talk?" the baroness interceded, taking Danielle's hand. "Come, my dear, you've been through a miserable ordeal, and your sister is so worried about you. Come, let's have you home—"

Prince Henry, once again, was not paying attention to the baroness. He was looking at Danielle. There was that accusation in her voice that had knocked him flat the first time he had met her in the dress of a courtier. At any other time, he would have challenged it, perhaps as amused, fascinated, and mildly indignant as he had been that day, when she had called him arrogant. But he was still too outraged that anyone in his country should feel forced to submit to such indecencies merely to keep their land. Surely there was some other way, and this country-girl was blaming the king—his father, his heritage—for a problem that wasn't the Crown's fault, but that of her own negligence."Couldn't you sell some of the land . . . or something?" He trailed of in the face of her hardening features.

"You want me to split up my father's land? You want me to sell pieces of it, as if it was yards of fabric? You want me to—" Her chest was heaving. In all her worry over the estate, she had never once considered selling any piece of it. Every bit of it was dear to her, and what he suggested seemed close to sacrilege. "I would rather cut up my heart than sell my father's land!" she told him, her voice almost shaking with the emotion there.

He blinked, startled by the force of her comments, and it suddenly grew very quiet on the busy street. The prince, used to a hush falling when he was in a public place, hardly noticed. Instead, his thoughts were on her words. He had seen the passion in her that first day, when he had still thought she was a courtier. Even before that, he supposed, when she had hit him square in the forehead with an apple. But what was amazing was that even now, she still had it—facing him, a peasant to a prince, outraged that he could even suggest something which seemed such a simple solution to him. "I don't understand," he said slowly.

The anger left her face, and she regarded him. Her features softened into a look of longing, and a warmth that almost seemed like pity suffused her eyes. "No, you wouldn't. You own all the land there is, and yet you take no pride in working it."

He scowled, remembering again what she had said when he first met her. "First I'm arrogant, and now I have no pride? However do I manage that?"

There was something almost teasing in his tone that made the hush that had fallen over that area of the market-place grow quieter still. Rarely had anyone even heard of royalty conversing with commoners, much less had anyone seen it. And the conversation was so . . . unusual. The baroness was looking back from one to the other in alarm. She suddenly realized that there might be more between these two than she had at first thought—though how that could be, she could not divine. So startled was she, and Marguerite as well, that she was for once at a loss as to how to grab the center of attention again.

Danielle, however, blithely went on, unaware of the hubbub the two were causing. "Merely that if you don't know your people, Sire," she explained, "don't know the people who work their own lands or even care for their circumstances, you can't know what it is to love the place you were born in, to feel it as a part of you, a living part which grows and changes with you."

Suddenly, an image of the ruins at Amboise filled his mind, and he almost knew what she was talking about. And yet, for all his father commanding him to take responsibility for his actions and for his people, for all his tutors educating him on his responsibilities as a ruler, no one had ever once spoken about the land he would rule with the passion this commoner had just displayed. Perhaps, if someone had, he would have taken a greater interest. "I don't understand how you can feel that way," he stated, his eyes narrowing as he took a step toward her.

He was no longer aware that he was on display, in front of commoners and noblemen alike. He no longer really cared. He wanted to hear more. He wanted to hear if she felt about her estate the way he felt about Amboise; he wanted to hear how what she felt was different; he wanted to see if it was something he could apply to his father's demand that he be king, so one day he could take pleasure in the position—take pride in it, as she said. "I don't understand how something cold and inanimate can live in such a way for you." He momentarily remembered her passion for _Utopia, _that day—only day before yesterday, but it seemed so long ago now. He couldn't even feel that passionate about people, and she felt it for dirt and paper.

"I suppose it's partially to do with memory," she replied, her voice suddenly seeming to come from farther away. She ducked her head, but she wasn't aware of those watching them either. Instead, she was avoiding the prince's eyes, and aching for the fields and forests of her father's lands. "My father used to walk the fields with me, teaching me the ins and outs of them—how to work them, how to gain from them, how to live off them . . . how to love them. He seemed to know everything." She laughed a little, at that. "I would rather hear his voice again than anything in the world," she concluded, her voice filled with a longing that was not distant, but immediate, full of need, passionate.

"Marguerite!" the Baroness exclaimed suddenly, catching at her daughter as the blond swayed theatrically.

"Oh, what?" Marguerite murmured, only half standing, looking as if she would faint.

For a moment, Prince Henry scowled in the direction of the de Ghents, and turned for a single, reluctant moment to meet Danielle's eyes. Then he pulled a mask of concern over his features, and looked inquiringly at the baroness. "What seems to be—"

"It's nothing, your Highness," Marguerite assured him, her voice wavering. "I think it's only the heat. I must have—oh!" She fainted—or at least looked as if she did—dead away then in her mother's arms, and Henry shook his head.

"Have someone fetch water. And salts," he told one of the attendants. "You there—and you, you look sturdy—help mademoiselle Marguerite back to the palace; she obviously needs to be in a cool place." He said this last with a touch of dryness, and turned to the baroness. "I'm sorry, Madame. I think it is only a passing spell. She will be alright."

"But oh, how dreadful," the baroness exclaimed, leaning on his arm, which he had hastily offered before she fell on him. "Oh, I must be taken in with her! You cannot understand, your Highness, the concern of a mother! What if—"

As the baroness rambled on, Henry chanced a glance back to where Danielle had stood. Marguerite's fainting spell had caused a commotion, and the area was very crowded where he had been. He could see that she had already gone back to tending the prunes—her face still soot-smeared.

The concern of a mother indeed, he thought, tightening his hand on the Baroness de Ghent, and gritting his teeth against comment.


	4. chapter 4

A/N: The lines from the movie and the paraphrased quotes from Jane Eyre aren't mine. This chapter cuts off in rather an odd place; sorry, it was getting too long.  
**Panther28: **In chapter 2 of my story, Jacqueline told Henry that Danielle was their step-sister. I reread that part and realized that perhaps it's not clear that Henry perfectly understood Danielle's relationship to the baroness, but a little further on I think the narrator makes it pretty clear. Henry understanding this is important in the last line of chapter 3, and will be important later, so tell me if you think chapter 2 still doesn't make it clear, and I will do some editing. Thanks for everyone's interest!

* * *

"Look, Gustave, it's floating!" Danielle exclaimed, reeling in the string of Signore da Vinci's flying machine.

"I don't know what you're so happy about," Gustave replied, half sullen. "You argue with the Prince of France in front of everyone, right after he's taken interest in Marguerite. Even if they do get married you'll never see the light of day as punishment."

"I'm in the sun now," Danielle replied, throwing back her head and reveling in the feel of the air against her skin.

"Only because the baroness hasn't gotten around to it yet," Gustave replied unhappily, and went back to his painting.

"I can't see why it bothers you so," Danielle rejoined, after a moment. "I could care less."

"The prince would be your brother-in-law," Gustave told her, trying to rub it in, "and you would be bringing them breakfast in bed."

"Yes, but then they would move into the palace and I could stay with the manor—turn things around; that's all that matters." What Danielle had told the prince at the market-place was true. She loved this place, and just now she could be carefree because she was luxuriating in the air of it, the freedom. There was nowhere else she wanted to be, and the rest of the world just seemed to fall away. It really didn't matter.

"And I suppose if you saw him again you'd simply . . ."

"I'd walk right up to him and say, your Highness, my family is your family. Please, take them away."

"Good. Because here's your big chance," Gustave told her, his eyes widening as they confirmed what he had thought he had seen approaching on the horizon. "He's headed this way." He laughed to himself at that, wondering if Danielle would make good her word. He doubted it.

As Danielle saw Prince Henry, Laurent, and the rest of the royal entourage slowly following approach, she hastily reconsidered her last statement. Gustave was right after all, and suddenly the fresh air wasn't so pleasing, and hardly so free. Had the prince ridden this way because he was going to visit her step-sister? Suddenly, the thought of the two of them courting made her feel ill. Besides which, she had several times, now, confronted the prince when it was most obviously not her place to do so. Her step-mother had been infuriated by the incident in the market-place, and the gossip had been horrific. She didn't like to think of what they would say if she got into yet another such debate with the prince.

Then again, why should she? He had chosen, for reasons she had yet to fathom, to take interest at the market-place and perform a random act of kindness such as might benefit the people of France, should he ever choose to extend his charity to them. However, there were no such circumstances at hand today; there was no reason why she and the prince might even converse at all, even if he was here in the middle of her field on horse-back.

She tried not to think about how charming, really, he _looked _on horse-back, or the fact that she really would actually prefer to talk to him than not.

He was drawing to a stop, now, Laurent several paces behind. "Have either of you seen—" he began, and stopped as his eyes abruptly focused on the peasants before him. "You," he stated, his voice half a question—half an accusation. Danielle and Gustave had fallen into their curtsies and bows, respectively, when the prince had started talking. The prince rolled his eyes impatiently. "Rise. I said _look _at me. What . . ." He trailed off as she did rise, obeying him, and his horse, feeling the sudden laxness in the reins, danced a step back. The prince re-gripped the leather, but his eyes remained fixed on Danielle.

She looked at him as if . . . as if she was the princess, and he was merely . . . No, it wasn't quite that either. The expression in her eyes wasn't derisive, merely challenging. She looked at him as if meeting the eyes of an equal—as if she were a countess, and fit to meet the eyes of a prince. And that, he saw suddenly, was part of what was wrong with his life. Countesses didn't look at him that way; _queens _didn't look at him that way. They cowered, or fawned, or flirted, but even the most daring at him looked at him as a name and a title, either to be worshipped or to be won. Not a single one of them looked at him as if he was just a man.

Except for the country girl standing before him.

Henry swallowed and edged his horse forward. When he spoke, his voice was hard. "I'm looking for Signore da Vinci. Have either of you seen him?"

Danielle shook her head, and the boy beside her shrugged. "No, we haven't," he expanded, squinting into the sun up at the prince.

Henry blinked, annoyed. Why was it that their royal guest paid no heed to royal convention at all? It made for a most trying schedule. He tried not to consider that Laurent must often think similar thoughts about him. "Is that not his flying contraption?" he asked, pointing to the string still trailing in Danielle's fingers.

Gustave shrugged and Danielle said, "Maurice found it in the trees outside the vegetable garden," she explained. "It must have crash landed sometime when the signore was flying it." The prince narrowed his eyes and Danielle looked down, opening her arms, as if to prove her innocence. "I wanted to see if it still worked," she explained, hefting the roll of string in her hand.

There was a long pause. "Where was it you say the kite landed?" Henry asked finally, glancing up to the trees in the distance.

Danielle looked up and met his eyes, but it was Gustave who answered. "The vegetable garden." The prince raised a brow, and Gustave turned around so he could point. "You go between these haystacks, down through the line of trees. There's a path, and you turn left, then go through the gate to the orchard. There's a shorter way of course, but I'm telling you the shortcut. Half-way through the orchard you make your way right, and it's a bit of a walk until you—"

Henry rolled his eyes again, and his horse mirrored the sentiment with a few restless steps. He put an effective stop to Gustave's babbling by dismounting with an abrupt, elegant movement. "You," he said decisively to Danielle. "Show me the way there. I think the signore may be looking for his contraption, in which case he might be somewhere along the way to your . . . vegetables. You," he admonished, turning to Gustave, "I want you to search around these fields and the general vicinity, in case my guest is wandering about lost in search of the kite."

The prince spared a glance for Danielle and took a stride forward before half turning back to Laurent. "I won't be long," he told the captain of his guard, and went off in the direction in which Gustave had pointed, leaving his horse to be tended by the royal guard. Danielle handed the roll of string to Gustave and followed the prince, careful to keep her head down and to remain several paces behind.

When they reached the line of trees Gustave had indicated in the distance, the prince, who had been moving quickly, stopped short. Danielle, startled, almost fell in beside him, before remembering the respectful distance she was meant to remain behind. "What, no harsh words?" he asked the trees, without looking around at her.

"I'm sorry, your Highness?" she asked, tilting her head.

"It seems that whenever we have met before, madam," the prince elucidated, stepping into the wooded area—more slowly, now—"you have had something to tell me, and usually quite sharply, about something you seem to think I am doing wrong."

"I only—" Danielle began, and realized she was doing it again. "I apologize. Forgive me, your Highness."

Ahead of her, the prince's powerful shoulders shrugged. "Perhaps," he answered cryptically. He wasn't sure if he wanted to forgive her. He wasn't sure if he _could _forgive her.

She haunted his dreams.

He had thought, that day by the lake, that at least now he knew she was merely a commoner, his night wouldn't be disturbed by her. And yet last night had been filled with thoughts of what she had said during their argument in the market-place, his mind compelled by her love of her land. Once again he realized that if he had ever been strong enough to hold such fervent passion in his body, such feelings for the land of France would go hand in hand with ruling it well. He would not then be reluctant to take over the throne, but eager—eager to care for France, to improve it, to help its people and make swell its produce.

Through the night, trying not to think too hard of her eyes, her lips, he had not been able to get over her words—wanting to hear more, to discuss with her, to understand her thoughts and share her ideas. To know from her what it was like to be that passionate about something. Anything. "Tell me, how do you do it?" he asked abruptly, frustration evident in his voice. This time, he did glance back at her, his eyes flicking over her as she bent under the branch of a tree, and again he looked straight forward.

"Do what?" she asked, frowning.

"Live each day with that kind of . . . passion. Don't you find it exhausting?"

Danielle shrugged, and then, without thinking, said simply, "Only when I'm around you." Abruptly realizing what she had just said, she tripped over a root in the ground. Henry, moving quickly, steadied her with his arm, but she had fallen forward so that it was against his chest that she began apologizing. "Forgive me, Sire; I didn't mean to say—your Highness, I—"

She was going to bow her head an curtsey again, he thought. It annoyed him when people did that, bowing and bobbing her presence, but now it made him positively angry. He jerked her steady, his hand gripping her arm. "Don't," he said, his voice low, and released her. "It's not you."

He pushed on ahead, picking up pace again, and it was only after several moments that he realized his teeth were gritted and his eyes were closed, his breath coming heavily as he tried to regain his composure. He was not aggravated by her apology or her comment, though he wished he was. He was angry at himself, that those words—_only when I'm around you—_could strike him so.

Something was rising in his breast that shouldn't be there. Did she mean she only felt so passionate around him? That he made her question her convictions the way she made him question his lack thereof? That in some way he shook her soul the way she shook his? A peasant shouldn't make him ask such questions of himself—and then she had fallen against him, dramatic curves coming to discovery under his hands as if he had never felt the lines of a woman before. Her shoulders, her hips . . . his hands ached to rest again on those hips, to pull them in against his. All these were things his body shouldn't be feeling in the arms of a commoner.

Frustrated, he slammed the orchard gate without bothering to hold it for her. He had been trained to be a gentleman, but a prince rarely used such skills. It was so when he went on walking, teeth still grit and eyes glued sightlessly to the path before him, when he commanded her, quite simply, to speak.

Her voice was a moment in coming. "What shall I say, your Majesty?"

"Anything," Henry replied, swatting at a low bough of an apple tree. He shrugged. "Everything. You seemed to have no trouble holding your tongue last time I met you here."

"That's not fair, Sire," she remarked, and hastily bit her lip.

"That's the spirit. Go on."

"I am willing to entertain you, if I must, your Highness," Danielle replied, pique in her voice, "but it's unfair of you to expect me to know what would please you to speak of, seeing as how I have only managed to irritate you in our past conversations, as you yourself have only just now pointed out," Danielle responded, reason and annoyance in her voice.

Henry's mood was lightening. He rather liked aggravating her; it was as if there was a lack of control in her that couldn't stop her from rising to the occasion. He liked that sort of freedom, that sort of straight-forward out-spokenness. It was what he longed for and was unable to express, as heir apparent to the throne. "I don't care if you please me," he told her flippantly. "It pleases me to be displeased."

She remained silent, whipping at the boughs behind him and saying nothing. He knew his request must seem to her born of royal idleness and arrogant boredom, and that for lack of anything better he was commanding the only subject at hand to entertain him. Had it been several days ago, in the company of another, it might have been. He wanted her to know now, quite emphatically, that it was not. "Tell me of your father," he said gently, and moved in step beside her so he could look at her while they walked.

Her face suddenly looked withdrawn—far more than it had moments before, when she had been only annoyed. "Why?" she asked.

He shook his head and pursed his lips, not looking at her for a while. When he did speak, his voice was full of frustration. "Yesterday, in the market-place . . . you spoke of walking through the woods with your father, do you remember?" He didn't glance to see if she confirmed it, because he was shaking his head again, lost in his own thoughts. "You had more conviction in that single _memory . . . _than I have in my entire being."

It angered him to no end. He hated that it was true—first, that she had that conviction in the first place, when even the end of the world might only strike him as he was now with passing interest. Second, that he found it so thrilling. Was it because he lacked so much depth, because he really did have so little feeling in him, that a country commoner of no importance could engage him so? Or was it that she was right—that the 'everyday rustic', as he had called them, really did have a thing or two to teach him?—Or was it something more?

Her soft voice cut into his thoughts. "When I think of him," she told him, "I think of books. I think of the way he would stay up late reading to me, and I would fall asleep listening to the sound of his voice. It was the best times we had together—there was magic in those hours, in that fire-light."

There was something full and warm in her voice and words that made his questions and anger fall away. The tenderness there was not meant for him, but it soothed his nerves, and for a moment he allowed himself the idle fantasy that she _knew _his mood, and that there was something gentle in her nature that _wanted_ to soothe him. He wished, for a single, inexplicable moment, that that tenderness in her voice _was_ for him, after all.

"When he would go away on travel," she continued, "I would read the book he had brought for me the last time, and always feel that much closer to him. He died when I was eight, but it's the same way still. _Utopia _was the last book he gave me, and I read it to remember him."

He made the mistake of glancing at her, and he was unable to look away. She had that far-away quality in her eyes; her lips had fallen open in remembrance. "I can see how, then, books touch you so," he said slowly, contemplatively.

She nodded. "It is _he_ touching me, through the words of others. He was addicted to the written word; books were a part of who he was. In reading More and Ronsard and Sidney I read him too—they make it so easy to remember, to get lost in thoughts and ideas that were my father's also."

He shook his head, recalling a thought he had had yesterday in the market-place. "In all my years of study, not one tutor ever demonstrated the passion you have shown these past few days," he mused, voicing the thought.

Danielle blushed and looked away. "You asked, Sire. I don't know how else to speak. My mouth has the tendency to run away without me."

"It is your mouth—" he began, and stopped abruptly, not knowing how to finish or what it was he had been about to say. Frustrated, he demanded, "Tell me more. I want to hear more about him."

They had reached the point where they should turn out of the orchard to reach the vegetable garden, and she gestured a little to show him the way. "We used to walk together, here," she said finally. "I remember it in the spring-time, when the apple-blossoms are just dying, and covering the path with white. It would be like a carpet, and he would carry me on his shoulders. He. . ."

He was trailing along behind her now, thoughtful, seeing it as she described it. He was reminded once again of Amboise, and heard in her voice the love he felt for that place—a love he had never really considered before and had never thought of expressing.

"He was a big man, my father . . ." she went on, "big, and the handsomest in the world, I used to tell him." She laughed a little. "He told me once that someday I wouldn't say that; that someday I would find . . . find someone I thought was . . . was . . ." She frowned, stopping by a particular tree and looking up. They were at the vegetable garden, at the place where Maurice had found the kite.

"Yes?" he asked her, realizing he was holding his breath. He wondered that the wind didn't still and that the birds didn't hush in anticipation of her reply.

She shrugged. "Nothing, really. My father had many dreams for my future. I don't suppose they will all come true."

"I can relate to that feeling," he said under his breath, somewhat petulantly. He had had many dreams in his youth, all of which he realized were meant to become null and void the moment he accepted the throne. He longed to tell her that, suddenly—to confide in her, to share his dreams and feelings. He wanted her to know, and he wanted her to help him escape. He wanted her to dream with him.

But there was nothing for it. The most he could ever do was listen to her memories as they approached a vegetable garden, and remain aware throughout that it would never be enough to revive or sustain those dreams so long buried. Those dreams would have to be sacrificed. He could never have what he wanted, and somehow, for reasons he couldn't define, this girl standing before him proved that. Things might be different if she had blue blood in her, though he wasn't sure why.

Whatever the reason, it was best not to think about it, he concluded. He was supposed to be looking for a _wife, _not mulling over his impossible and dying dreams while wandering the country-side with a random nobody. Wouldn't the king be thrilled at his use of his time? The reminder of duty irked him, as it always did, but the king had, after all, made concessions, and Henry had precious little time. The world was not a fair place, and woman and her common blood seemed to him sudden proof of that. He might as well make do with what little he had been given. With this resolution, he asked abruptly, "How is Marguerite?"

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	5. chapter 5

A/N: This chapter begins with a continuation of the scene from the previous chapter and ends with a scene that continues with the next chapter. Sorry about splitting up the scenes, if it's at all confusing. Thanks for reading and **shopgirl909, **I hope you've had a better day today!

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**from chapter 4:**

_He was supposed to be looking for a _wife_, not mulling over his impossible and dying dreams while wandering the country-side with a random nobody. Wouldn't the king be thrilled at his use of his time? The reminder of duty irked him, as it always did, but the king had, after all, made concessions, and Henry had precious little time. The world was not a fair place, and woman and her common blood seemed to him sudden proof of that. He might as well make do with what little he had been given. With this resolution, he asked abruptly, "How is Marguerite?"_

* * *

Danielle stared at him blankly. "Your step-sister, I believe?" he prompted. "Last I saw of her, she was fainting dead away in her mother's arms. I trust she is recovered?"

She blinked several times, as if coming out of a dream. Of course he would ask after Marguerite. For a while, she had forgotten that he was a prince, and had foolishly thought that he cared what she—a commoner, a 'rustic', after all—had to say. She had forgotten he was only making the best out of his forced company with a servant, and that as soon as she bored his Royal Idleness, he would be interested in something else. He was interested in Marguerite. "She is recovered," Danielle said at last, eyes cast down.

Henry's brows rose at her reaction. "Perhaps I should call on her," he mused, more to himself than in question to her.

"The family is from home," Danielle replied dully.

Henry raised a brow. "Perhaps they're back by now."

Danielle shook her head. "They've gone to church, and won't be back until three hours past noon. They heard the prince—I meant, your Highness—you . . ."

"Ah yes," he said sardonically, nodding in understanding. "I was, after all, slotted to visit the cathedral sometime today—so everyone could gawk, it seems—before Leonardo decided to up and disappear," he mulled. He pursed his lips and turned back to her suddenly. "And you? You didn't wish to attend church?"

"I didn't wish to gawk," Danielle replied promptly. Her eyes widened as she realized the snappish derision of her comment, and she stared at him in dumb surprise.

"You're gawking now," he told her, lifting a brow.

His tone, she realized, was teasing. The beginnings of a grin lit her face, and her voice was half shy, half playful when she answered. "It's hardly my fault, Sire."

"Oh?" he asked, shifting his weight. He pursed his lips, unused to someone teasing him in this way—in a way that wasn't, for once, flirtatious, but merely a battle of wits. And he liked her wits. "And why—"

"Ah, there you are," a voice said. "I've been looking for you everywhere."

Blinking, Henry rounded on the voice. "Signore da Vinci! Looking for _me, _you say? Where have you been? I was forced to cancel several important appointments on your account."

"Bah," da Vinci murmured waving an idle hand at the prince. His eyes suddenly lit on Danielle. "Is this the man I met being chased by a pack of dogs, a bunch of gypsies, and the royal guard, all for the sake of a woman?" He winked at Danielle and then suddenly turned back to Henry, his eye critical. "Or is this the stodgy spoiled Prince? Where's your sense of adventure, eh?"

Henry rolled his eyes. "My escape, you will have noted," he replied, annoyed, "was unsuccessful. It's back to Court and tennis and father's miserable appointments for me, I'm afraid." His voice was bitter, not at all light.

"What you need, my boy, is a happy medium."

Henry frowned. "Signore da Vinci, you may be a genius, but I have no idea what you are talking about."

Da Vinci shrugged. "She does," he said simply, indicating Danielle. "Why don't you ask her?"

Danielle, startled, looked from the signore to the prince, but Prince Henry's mood had changed. Da Vinci had reminded him of his inescapable duties at Court, and while they did not please him, he was tied to them. As many times as he had tried to escape, he had been brought back—and as many times he had planned such escapades, he had known his plans would fail. Even if he escaped the guards and the physical barriers of his heritage, he had been raised a prince. He was conditioned to it. Try as he might, he didn't know how to live any other way.

Resenting this knowledge, hating it, in fact, he looked at Danielle and bitterly envied her freedom. Of course she might talk with fire and passion. She was free of the idle trappings of court, and would never have the pressures of a throne upon her. In that moment, he resented her utterly. "_She_," he announced, regarding Danielle and speaking to da Vinci, "is merely a commoner. She can know nothing pressures of royal life. For that matter, what can you? Perhaps, signore, you had better stick to your paintings and machines."

Frowning, da Vinci looked from Danielle to Henry and back again. He was not offended by Henry's comment, thought he was certain at that moment that the Prince of France was a bit more of a fool than he had thought before. No, he was not offended, but intensely aware of what the prince was feeling to have merited such a harsh retort. He merely shrugged in reply, and the prince kept his eyes pinned on Danielle, who's cheeks had gone pink with indignation at the comment. Otherwise, she displayed no reaction, and kept her head down.

Perhaps it was this deference that reminded Prince Henry of his resolution. He would never escape; his dreamy behavior had to end here. Now. He had to stop wasting his time with this nobody—who he wanted so desperately to defy him just now, to berate him, to tell him that he was wrong and that all his dreams could be fulfilled if he merely took her hand and . . . But she was silent. Docile, just like any other subordinate. "Perhaps later today I will look on Marguerite de Ghent," he said casually, but there was spite, there, too. "It was such a bad spell she had. I spent the night worrying over her." He paused. "You may tell her mother that." With that, Henry strode off along the lane—not back through the orchard along the short-cut on which they'd come, but another way.

Da Vinci shrugged. "Look up, child," he told Danielle. "He will recognize you for who you are, in time."

"Recognize me?" Danielle asked, startled. "What do you mean?"

"Oh look! That nice young lad has found my kite," da Vinci said, blinking, looking off in the distance at Gustave. "Such friendly people 'round here, wouldn't you say?"

He hobbled off after his kite, and Danielle was left standing there, trying to fathom all that had happened.

* * *

"Should I be sick or well?" Marguerite demanded in a high voice, tearing about the bedroom in a flurry of red. Dresses were heaped about the floor, on the bed, across the bureau. Paulette and Louise were cowering against the back wall. "Mother!" Marguerite shrieked, in nothing but her chemise and petticoat. She slammed the blue dress onto the floor beside her and stamped her foot! "Mother!"

"Marguerite, why aren't you dressed?" the baroness asked, aghast, as she sailed into the bedroom. "He'll be here in any minute!"

"He's been here any minute for the last hour," Paulette said under her breath, but did not dare speak up.

"I can't decide whether to be sick or well," Marguerite said petulantly, and her mother nodded in understanding.

"Danielle," the baroness called, making her name three syllables and the last incredibly high.

Danielle hurried up into the room, covered in dust, soot, and cobwebs. From the moment she had told her step-mother and sisters what the prince had said, the bustle in the manor hadn't stopped—nor had the commands, cleaning, and shrieking. She had been lucky enough to be absent the last time the prince had stopped by, and had no idea that her step-mother and Marguerite would become this exasperating. If she had suspected they might, she probably wouldn't have told them that he was coming again—despite the fact that he had commanded her to.

"Yes?" she asked, with a sigh, having trouble sounding biddable when there was so much work assigned to her already. Jacqueline had edged into the room, ignored since the news had come. No doubt she wanted to know what was going on.

"Tell us what the prince said," the baroness commanded Danielle. "I want to hear it exactly, word for word."

"I already told you a thousand ti—"

"I'll have none of your cheek, Danielle," her step-mother admonished, her features growing hard. I want to know what was said, _now."_

Danielle sighed again and recited once more. "He asked how Marguerite was, and I told him she had recovered."

"How dare you tell him I was well!" Marguerite interjected, but her mother hushed her.

Danielle glared at Marguerite, but continued, "He said that perhaps he should call, as she was fainting the last time he saw her, and it seemed such a bad spell."

"Yes?" Rodmilla prompted. "Yes, yes, then what was said?"

Danielle shrugged. "I told him the family was from home, and—"

"How could you! She's ruined us, mother!"

"Well," Jacqueline said genially, "it wouldn't have been very helpful of her to say we were home when we weren't. Then you would've missed him altogether."

Marguerite groaned and threw herself back on the bed. "Hush, you," the baroness admonished Jacqueline, and turned sharply back to Danielle. "Now, the rest, and no more of your stalling."

Danielle rolled her eyes. "He said that he would call later to check on Marguerite, and that he had spent the night worrying over her." Danielle winced a little, at that. The thought of any man dreaming of her sister made her feel slightly ill, but the fact that it was the prince . . .

What galled her most about it was that she had been up half the night too, but not at all with worry over Marguerite. No, she had been thinking of the note of challenge in the prince's voice during their argument in the market-place. She had been wishing, for once, that she _was _a courtier, so that she might debate so freely with him all the time without it being inappropriate. She had been thinking of his eyes, his large hands touching her, pulling his cloak over her, the smell of him—"He said," Danielle forced out, "that I might tell her mother that."

The baroness clapped her hands in delight, as she had when Danielle first told her that the prince was coming to call. She and Marguerite had already discussed (amidst orders that the house be cleaned and refitted from top to bottom, that Marguerite be scrubbed and clad to look like a queen, and the flying of dust and dresses) all the ins and outs of what the prince might have meant by wanting Danielle to tell Rodmilla that the prince had been up half the night worrying over her daughter. Neither had suspected that the comment might have been made in bitterness, for Danielle's ears, not theirs.

"My daughter, a queen," the baroness breathed, her eyes lost for a moment in the distance.

"Mother, _focus,"_ Marguerite demanded, as she often did when preoccupied with a matter of supreme importance, such as what brooch she should wear that day. "Would it be more effective if I was dying, very ill, just recovering, or fully recovered?"

Rodmilla's lips pursed, thinking quickly. "Not dying, surely. Then you would need to be in bed, and it wouldn't be proper for him to see you."

"But not fully recovered, either," Marguerite went on, her voice shrill. "Then he will no longer be worried about me, and might not visit again." Danielle rolled her eyes and began to withdraw, but Marguerite saw the movement and suddenly her face was mockingly innocent. "That is, he'll visit again no thanks to you, Cinder-soot. Mother, I don't think she really wants me to be queen."

Rodmilla spared a glance down her nose for Danielle. "All I can say is that it's a good thing you think on your feet, Marguerite, fainting like that when you did. If your sister didn't have so much ingenuity," the baroness went on, looking at Danielle derisively, "I don't know where we'd be. The prince would have scorned us, after the way you spoke to him at the market-place."

"Really, Cinderella, what were you thinking, even talking to him? He's a prince, and well . . ." Marguerite looked Danielle up and down. "Well, the most you'll ever know of royalty is what it feels like to be the royal chimney sweep, when I am queen."

"Actually," Jacqueline interjected, her voice prim and informative, "if Danielle hadn't been talking to the prince, you wouldn't have pretended to faint, and he wouldn't be coming here to come check on your health." She blinked, smiled, and shrugged, and concluded—as if innocently, "So, you really should be thanking her."

All eyes in the room turned to Jacqueline, who looked from her mother to her sister guilelessly. "Oh . . ." her mother started, waving her hand at her younger daughter, ". . . Go eat some pastries. That way, we won't have you stuffing your face in front of the prince after he arrives, and we won't have to listen to your chatter before."

"Right," Jacqueline responded sharply, and turned on her heel.

"Well?" the baroness demanded, after her daughter had left. "What is everyone standing here for? Get to work!"

* * *

Prince Henry rode ahead of his entourage in the direction of the de Ghent estate, feeling invigorated by the late afternoon sun. He couldn't help feeling alive, despite the feelings with which he had started the journey.

He had regretted, later, telling the servant-girl that he would be by later that day to check on Marguerite de Ghent. He was not really interested in Marguerite, no matter how pretty she was. He knew it was his duty to at least _try _to find a wife, but he had been feeling bitter and resentful—of Danielle, for somehow, by her mere existence, managing to confirm that all his dreams were impossible, of his father, for forcing this on him. For, despite the king's unexpected concession to allow him to marry who he chose, Henry had felt more trapped than ever went he had prepared this afternoon to court the de Ghents.

But now the crickets chirping, and twilight would be upon them—that soft, magic hour that he loved, that seemed to make everything mysterious and still undetermined. And, to his surprise, Henry found himself rather looking forward to visiting Marguerite, though he could not fathom why. He supposed she might make a very powerful, ingenious and compelling queen . . . Perhaps, though he could not force love, he could do his duty in this regard and at least find a woman to marry for whom he felt respect.

Suddenly, Henry felt a good deal better. Besides which, Jacqueline was very nice, and the estate was very pretty, and Marguerite . . . He found himself thinking of blue eyes that were not Marguerite's at all, and, as he arrived in the courtyard of the manor, he quite suddenly cursed himself this journey. He was able to admit to himself only too late that he was eager to visit Marguerite not to see Marguerite but to see someone else entirely.

He had already been spotted, and the eager faces at the window had already disappeared. An old man that Henry recognized had come to clasp the bridle of his horse, and Laurent and the rest had already crowded in behind him. If he had thought he was trapped before, he was most certainly trapped now. Sighing, Henry dismounted, and handed his reins to a servant. He was so accustomed to doing that, to being attended to, that he almost didn't notice that that servant was none other than Danielle.

His eyes darkened slightly as he glanced again at her, but there was no other sign of recognition. He treated her as he might treat every other servant—with royal disregard, and was shown into the manor with a flourish by someone and an announcement by someone else. Danielle watched for just a moment before clicking her tongue to the horse. The baroness had commanded her to help stable the horses, embarrassed that there were barely enough stalls to house the entire convoy.

"Tend to them, Danielle, and make sure those servants get it right! We can't have the prince thinking that even his steed isn't treated like the highest royalty." She'd flicked her hand at Danielle. "And then come right back, do you hear? And for heaven's sake, don't open your mouth to the prince. Marguerite can't save our dignity by fainting every time you embarrass us. A single slip, Danielle, and it's off to the Americas with you!"

Danielle sighed and the horse behind her butted her with its nose. "Sorry, roan, no apples today," she told it quietly, wrapping an arm around its neck as she led it. "There's nothing, today."

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	6. chapter 6

A/N: I realize in my summary that I said this fic would involve scenes from the movie. I got a little side-tracked, but the next four chapters, at the very least, will be building on scenes from the movie. Thanks for reading.

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"How's the invalid?" Henry inquired, once he had been helped out of his royal cloak and ensconced himself in—been forced into, rather, with much ado—the best chair in their slight poor but quaint drawing-room.

"I am almost completely well," Marguerite replied from her couch, in a wheedling, almost pleading tone. "I just don't want there to be any fuss."

"That's what she has been saying all day, your Highness," the baroness interjected, her sharp eyes darting from Marguerite to the prince. "She insisted on going to church, saying that she could not commit sins merely for sickness—and on and on about not wanting to be a burden to anyone! I never saw the like."

"Yes," Henry replied tiredly, his eyes already slipping away with boredom. "I never saw it either." Only five minutes there, and he was already aching to be gone. Marguerite, invalid or no—he was quite sure it was no—was looking pretty, it was very true. Someone here obviously knew how to display her to her best advantage. She was prone on the couch, her lithe, lovely body on display in its entirety as it could not often be for a woman except when standing up and walking about. The lace and linens tucked about her emphasized the milky paleness of her skin and the striking colors of her lips, hair, and eyes. There was a pathos about her, as of sickness or despair, a death-bed aura that he was pretty sure they had spent all afternoon creating.

He should be responding, he supposed, to the look of her, to the soft, wistful quality of her voice, to the limpid look in her eyes. But instead she seemed to him only pale, small, and sickly—stunningly like a drowned rat, he couldn't help thinking, and her voice seemed merely grating and overly high, like a small girl squeaking, or some hapless cat dying. A finer voice was thrilling in his head. But it wasn't fair to Marguerite, he knew, to be comparing her to . . . The prince shook his head, knowing he should not be thinking such thoughts.

Henry went on talking—or listening rather—to the baroness's declarations of Marguerite's gentle humbleness and Marguerite's protestations of simple faith and compassion. It felt very contrived and boring. Usually, the de Ghents were at least a little more entertaining than other courtiers; they were a little less refined and so a little more affected—always interesting to watch. But today that quaintness grated on his nerves, and he almost wished even for court, because there he could simply tune out his circumstances, whereas here the shrillness of Marguerite's voice kept him on edge.

At least, he supposed, _some_one was happy. Laurent, standing in the corner and minding the proceedings, had the silliest grin on his face, and Jacqueline was looking down and blushing furiously. Hm, Henry thought to himself. They weren't exactly the most beautiful couple, but he really did quite enjoy Jacqueline, and Laurent deserved someone well-to-do, pretty, and most of all nice, which Jacqueline most certainly—

"Danielle!" the baroness called suddenly, jarring him out of his latest reverie. His eyes widened slightly at the name, but he showed no other reaction. "It's so hard to get good help these days," the baroness confided, in a lower tone. Then: "Danielle!" again, and Henry suddenly knew wherefrom Marguerite had inherited her 'resonant' voice.

Danielle stumbled into the room, and Henry couldn't help watching what followed with avid curiosity. He tried to maintain a cool, detached demeanor, but was not completely sure if he succeeded.

"Danielle—dear," the baroness began, feigning a smile of indulgence as she looked at her servant. "Where have you been?" Her voice lowered into a snap the prince couldn't hear. "You are in the presence of royalty. Please _try _to remember to be on your best behavior!"

Danielle steadily kept her eyes averted from the prince, and so kept her gaze directed down at her toes. "What was it you wanted?" she asked lowly.

"You're the only one who looks presentable around here, for some reason," the baroness said with a huff, as if not realizing that she had worked all her servants so hard today to get the manor ready for the royal visit that she hadn't given them a chance to clean themselves of the dust and muck. Perhaps she really didn't realize it at all. "The prince will require wine. And water. And cakes. Well!" the baroness prompted, scowling as Danielle merely regarded her with widened eyes. "Hop to it! Don't stand there looking daft!"

Danielle was used to her step-mother ordering her around; however, she was not used to waiting on people she didn't know. Especially princes she didn't know. Especially princes she did know, or felt she knew in her heart, somehow, in ways she couldn't explain.

That morning, as she had told him, she had let her tongue run away with her again. She knew she got carried away sometimes with her thoughts and her ideas of how things should be. She also knew that much to the annoyance of her step-mother, she put far too much store in things that had passed, things that were not real, dreams that were merely imagined. But a part of her could not help herself, and all she could really help was to try not to speak to vehemently about it in front of anyone who would not understand.

And yet, the prince had seemed to understand, in a way. Things that seemed so simple to her—her love of her father's land, her cherished memories of a loved one—seemed new and unfathomable to him, but his reaction to them, his response to her, was one of eagerness. She recognized that feeling—and yet . . . and yet, now, he treated her as if she did not exist.

They lived in two different worlds. They could never understand each other. And yet she somehow could not pin her heart down, and tell it not to fall . . . Her hands were shaking as she poured the wine and water for the prince. When she brought it to him, he looked at her for the barest moment, and odd look in his eyes. He steadied her hand with his to take the cup, and then did not look at her again.

"Cinderella," Marguerite said sweetly, as if it were merely a childhood pet name, "would you please stir up the fire? I'm feeling so cold . . ." She gave her statement a little emphasis with a shiver.

"My poor dear!" the baroness exclaimed, moving to shift the blankets closer up around Marguerite. The latter swatted at her mother's hand and nodded frantically at the fireplace. She wanted to make sure the prince saw Danielle in her proper place, after that scandalous scene at the market-place.

"Well, Danielle? Won't you help poor Marguerite?" the baroness demanded, taking her daughter's hand and feeling the pulse, as if there was danger.

Marguerite cast her eyes skyward. "I would do it myself, mother, only I feel so weak . . ."

Danielle sighed and said nothing, moving to the hearth. After arranging the wood into the fireplace, she started up a healthy blaze. For a moment she knelt there, reveling in the memories it invoked. It was this room, more often than not, that her father had cuddled up with her close to the flames and read to her.

In the shadows cast by the new light in the room, the prince shifted. The flames glowed off of her and into Danielle's eyes, making her look for a moment like something from the spirit-world. Then Danielle left the room, and the prince moved forward to the couch on which Marguerite lay.

"I'm afraid I have to take my leave, now," he said, almost if he regretted it. "This visit has been most pleasant, but I see you are far too ill to admit my company. I'm sorry to have inconvenienced you in this manner, but—"

Naturally, remonstrance's and pleas met his announcement. "Oh, but Prince Henry, I really am feeling so much recovered—"

"No convenience at all! Won't you please stay the night? Our guest quarters are in excellent condi—"

"But I really must be leaving," he assured them. It took some doing, but he finally extricated himself from the situation, the room, and at last, the manor. Once out into the night, he took a deep breath, feeling relief wash over him. He wondered what might have happened had he never had a higher standard to which to compare Marguerite. Might he have married that fawning, cooing weakling? He shuddered at the thought, and thanked whatever Beings were watching over him.

Feeling Laurent and several of the other attendants come out behind him, Henry whirled. "Give me a couple moments," he told them, dismissal in his voice. "I need to be sane again, after . . . _that." _He waved his hand vaguely at the manor behind him, and Laurent nodded in understanding. Henry paused a moment at that, and then raised a brow. Briefly, he nodded, and Laurent disappeared. The prince might not have found any sort of success tonight in securing his future wife, but it didn't mean other men weren't more lucky.

Frustrated, the prince wandered into the dusky twilight, trying to absorb the approaching tranquility of the night, needing to recover from the stifling sickness inside the manor, from the de Ghent's inexcusable for pretentiousness. And yet, as much as he tried to appreciate it, the night had somehow lost its luster.

He was frustrated. His father had at last allowed him _some _modicum of control over his own life, and yet he had failed in the deceptively simple task of falling in love and finding a wife. Somehow, between an orchard and a vegetable garden, all his dreams had died today, and though he had tried, after that, there really didn't seem to be that much point in looking around elsewhere. Scenes like the one he had just left behind disgusted him; woman such as Marguerite left him feeling empty and slightly repulsed. His mother would protest; not all women were as insufferable as Marguerite, after all. But somehow, they were all the same to him. He was a lost cause, trapped by, more than anything, his own failure And he felt so completely alone.

Sighing, he wandered in the direction of the stables. Though his attendants would probably be in a tizzy at his not having informed them, he hoped to derive some amusement from their thinking he had run away again when all he wanted to do was go home and accept whatever it was his father told him. That was all he was fit for, he supposed.

Someone was moving on the other end of the stables, the play of shadows in the torch-light letting him know he was not in the warm barn alone. One of the grooms, he supposed, was making sure all the royal steeds were well taken care of. He rolled his eyes—and caught sight of her, there, his roan stallion nuzzling her, the soft light outlining her in a way that made his breath catch in his chest and stay there, swell there, making his heart expand in ways he had never thought possible . . .

Danielle started. "Forgive me, your Highness; I did not see . . ." She trailed off and stepped back, her hands falling away from the horse, who butted her chest and whickered. The ensuing silence was long and thick, and smelled of sweet hay. At last, Danielle spoke, chagrined. "He was hungry." Danielle opened her hand to reveal a chomped down apple core.

"And you have a particular taste for apples, as I recall," Henry said mildly. When she looked away, eyes troubled, he stepped forward, knuckling the jaw bones of the large animal. "And horses?" he inquired, raising a brow.

"I'm partial to them, yes," Danielle replied. "What's his name?"

"Caligula."

"That's a twist. Will _he_ inherit your throne?"

Henry laughed a little, and so did she. Eventually, her hand returned to the horse's muzzle, offering again the apple core. He watched for a moment, and at last sighed. "You're spoiling him."

"He's already spoiled, past redemption. I am merely indulging him," Danielle assured him. "It's the best way to treat royalty, I've heard."

He blinked at her, and then threw back his head and laughed a real laugh, this time. She grinned back, and her smile only disappeared when his hand quite suddenly locked around her wrist. "I need to ask you a question," he said suddenly, looking at her in a way she had never seen before.

She tried to extricate her hand. "I don't think—"

"Yes you do," he said, tightening his grip. And then was suddenly aware that he was touching her, and that night was falling outside, and that no one knew they were alone here. He hastily dropped her wrist, not wanting to scare her. But she merely looked up at him, a touch indignant, but not at all afraid. He ran a hand through his hair and half turned from her. "You remember," he began at last, "what my friend Signore da Vinci said earlier today, don't you?" He looked at her, his gray eyes intense. "You remember."

He looked at her that way until she nodded. "About a . . . how did he put it? A 'happy medium'? He said you know what he meant. Tell me, what was he talking about? I need to know." He took a step forward, entering Danielle's space, forcing her to look up at him. "Tell me."

She could taste his breath, and it was warm in here—very warm. The animals created a feeling of comfort, of simplicity, of peace. The atmosphere here had always made her feel alive and sleepy at the same time, as if in that slightly fuzzy part in the day when all people dreamt. She wanted nothing more than to sink into his arms, and somehow the air here, the soft light, was lulling her into it. She wanted to taste him deeper, to touch him, to know him. She could sense his sorrow and his confusion, and she wanted nothing more than to take him into her arms and tell him it would be alright.

Danielle blinked, shaking her head. She could not do that, here—or anywhere. It didn't matter that she knew him better than anyone else, that she might have been able to help him. Heaving a sigh, she swept all such thoughts from her mind. "I can't presume to know Signore da Vinci's thoughts," she said at last.

Henry had been regarding her with a contemplative eyes. The look she had just given him . . . somehow, it had sent a shiver right down to his bones, and yet in the next moment, it was gone. "But you have your own theory of what he meant," Henry prodded speculatively, ignoring, for a moment, the strange feeling. She nodded in response, and he demanded, "Well?"

Frowning, Danielle began at last, "You seem to think that if you cared about one thing, you'd have to care about everything." He looked surprised at her assessment, but nodded at her to continue. "But it's not true--at least, not in the way that you think. A person can do so much, if he actually cares. You were born to privilege, and with that, comes specific obligations."

The prince had begun to scowl at her as she talked on, seeing himself in her description and feeling enervated by it. "Yes," he agreed bitterly. "And yet I'm supposed to . . . what? Espouse the ideas of your philosophers and artists; is that it?" His voice was condescending and sardonic, and heat flared in Danielle's face. "Come, enlighten me. You seem to have plenty of _ideas_ of your own." He said the word 'idea' as if it was something ridiculous.

"You have everything," she fired, "and yet still the world holds no joy. And yet you seem to make fun of those who would see it for its possibilities!" She was piqued now, her voice shaking. He inhaled, and was suddenly silent, merely looking at her. "Think of all the wonderful things you could do for your country, for the world!"

"Yes, but to be so defined by your position, to never be seen as who you are but what you are; you have no idea how insufferable that is!"

One slow brow rose up the soft skin of her forehead. "Excuse me. I know exactly how insufferable that is." He blinked, not comprehending, and she went on. "A servant, for example," she began, that challenging brow still aloft, as she indicated her clothing with a significant gesture, "is rarely painted as anything else. They are defined by their status, as your title defines you, yet it is not who they are. It is not who _I _am. I . . ."

Danielle trailed off, at last registering the look on his face. She suddenly realizing to whom she had been talking in such a manner, and hastily reassessed. "Well, Sire, you _did _ask. I'm sorry if yet again I've—"

His hand was suddenly over her mouth, stalling any more words, and he stepped closer, his other hand gripping her arm. "Stop," he demanded. He looked down at her, only inches from her, and she saw that fire was leaping in his eyes. He seemed to sway there for a moment, and then his hand dropped from her mouth and extended a knuckle beneath her chin, drawing her head up. His eyes were drifting down her face—from her eyes, to her nose, to—

Suddenly, he let go. "Haven't I told you it isn't you?" he asked, teasing in his tone.

She was still too startled to smile. She could still feel the heat of him, still smell him, almost _taste _him . . . had he been about to . . . ? She shuddered inwardly at the thought, wanting to wrap herself away from him, to protect herself from such desires. If he had, she could've been lost. She just hope she could learn to love again, once he was out of her life.

"Danielle?" he asked. "Are you alright?"

She looked up, but did not get past his jerkin-buttons. "I must go . . . inside. I'm feeling quite cold. Good day to you—" She nodded and was turning, when Laurent opened wide the door of the stable.

"Oh!" he said, suddenly flustered. "Sire, if I have interrupted—" He began backing out.

"No, I've just come to fetch my horse," Henry said calmly, already slipping the bridle onto Caligula. "This woman here was just helping me. He can be a rather fractious horse, you understand," Henry went on levelly.

"Ye-es . . ." Laurent said slowly. He paused for a moment longer, until Henry had the bit in and was holding the lead, before looking back over his shoulder. "He's in here!" he called. Then he turned back to the prince. "They were a bit concerned upon not finding you."

"Don't worry," Henry said solemnly, glancing at Danielle. "My days of running away are over." He led the horse out, leaving Danielle to swallow and regain her composure. She wasn't even sure any more whether she loved him or hated him, for confusing her so.


	7. chapter 7

* * *

The night was beautiful after all. The sky was a sharp black color, no feeling of dullness about it—it was something unfathomable, embracing and swallowing him at the same time. Stars winked in the distance, caught up in the blanket of night like glowing insects in a spider's web. And the air was savory, tangy with wood-smoke and fresh dirt on his tongue, sharp with welcome coolness on his skin.

He needed this air, after the warmth of those stables. For a moment, as his eyes had remained locked with hers, he had felt as if he was suffocating; he had become immediately aware that he was within inches of her, alone, in a warm, sweet-smelling shadowy place, twilight upon them. It had become so warm in the moments that followed that he had almost longed to shed his skin—shed everything he was, and just show her the depth of his soul, and touch hers, bare of all else—and so at last equal. He had wanted so desperately to settle his hands on her hips and taste her, and never come up for air again.

Standing on one of the parapets, looking out at the night, Henry shook his head, dispelling thoughts of her. Instead, he considered what she had said, and tried to put his thoughts and feelings into some semblance of order. The first thing he realized, almost instantly, was that he could never marry Marguerite, or invite her ilk into the royal family. After all, he had seen how they treated family. How any courtier could treat a member of her family with not only such unkindness, but such downright disrespect, appalled him.

He could not think of a more hideous moment in all his life than that in which Danielle had been forced to serve him his food and drink, and then been forced to tend the fire. He had not been able to help watching her as she arranged the wood, becoming more and more streaked with soot and dust. He had been about to put a stop to it, unable to stand it any longer—and then she had struck the match and lit the fire.

Seeing her limned in fire-light, all his powers of speech had slipped from him. He had been suddenly glad of her soot and dust; they were the only thing about her shining, beautiful form that had reminded him that she was real, not some dream from his deepest fantasy. And he had been glad because the fact that she had lit the fire that was illuminating her full, curved figure in such a warm and sensual light had reminded him that she was a servant. She was a commoner.

In that moment, he had seen in that moment what he really, truly wanted, and what he could never have. As such, he had better turn his energies and his interests to something he was allowed to love, something that _would _one day be his. He swore, in that moment, to marry himself to his country, to France. His best option—his only option, as far as he could see, was to ally with Spain. There could be no other love but that of his duty.

And his duty, he realized, was far greater than he had ever supposed. If he was really to devote himself to his country, to the good of his land, there would have to be drastic change. Yes, he was obligated to marry a woman he didn't like, to engage in activities that bored him, to take up a role he did not want—but as had been pointed out to him by a certain citizen earlier that night: the things he might do with that role!

Prince Henry slammed a hand down on the cool stone of the balustrade, ideas suddenly worming their way to the forefront of his brain and not only taking root, but flourishing rapidly. He didn't even bother going to bed that night. There was too much to think about, too much to plan for. Too much to dream about . . .

* * *

Bright and early the next morning, Prince Henry and his ever-present train of attendants were once again making their way to the manor of the de Ghents. When they neared the forecourts, he saw a figure working in the fields run into the manor, ostensibly to inform the inhabitants of the prince's approach. Recalling the scene that had greeted him after returning the horse he had stolen from the de Ghents, Henry rolled his eyes.

Thus it was that he was pleasantly surprised when the only one to greet him in the courtyard was Danielle, instead of the de Ghent daughters spilling out to fall over him with their brooches and feathers. He tried not to notice the how very different his feelings upon seeing her were than his feelings upon seeing _them. _As Henry dismounted Danielle once again knelt before him, her head bowed, saying merely, "Your Highness."

"Mademoiselle," he replied, nodding, and she rose in surprise. "Do you not attend church?" he continued.

She looked away. "My faith is better served away from the royal court," she said simply.

"But your step-mother and sisters—they are at church now, aren't they?" He paused for a moment. "Though not so much to serve their faith, if I may presume, as for the very reasons they attended the hunt yesterday. Don't you think?"

He said this without looking at Danielle, annoyed that the de Ghents had gone hoping to 'gawk' at him. At the same time he was relieved that they were removed from his presence, and strangely satisfied that both yesterday and today they had missed him. Danielle had said nothing in reply, but he could tell that she was hiding smiles. Smiling as well, Henry continued, "I'm bound for the monastery. The Franciscans have an astonishing library. Since you are so fond of reading, I thought that perhaps you might join me."

Danielle blinked, and afterwards regretted that her voice just then sounded very much like a squeak. "Me?"

Prince Henry positively grinned. "Yes, you. There are matters of business I wish to discuss with you."

Danielle shook her head, not understanding. "You wish," she started, "to discuss," she continued, "with me," she incredulously finished. She looked at him without comprehension. "Business?"

The prince was enjoying this. "Yes, business." Then he grinned at her slyly. "Contrary to popular belief, the plight of the everyday rustic doesn't bore me after all."

Danielle scowled. And then, almost petulantly: "What will I have to do?"

"To start with," Prince Henry chuckled, "you'll need to wash your face and get into that carriage over there. Simple enough?" He play-acted a little bow, and then suddenly flicked an arch glance at her. "Or am I interrupting something?" he asked, feigning innocence.

Danielle gave him a sardonic look and tossed her head, and five minutes later she was ensconced in their carriage as the prince followed on horse-back, in the direction of the monastery.

* * *

Prince Henry was in high spirits. Despite the fact that he had not slept at all the night before, he felt rejuvenated. His night of analysis had made several things clear to him, and with this new clarity, he had felt for the first time in his life as if he knew what to do, how to act. He might not get what he really wanted from life, but he was ready to accept that, move on, and make the best of things.

As they rode, he considered this, and a slight smile of satisfaction spread over his features. Everything seemed to be going his way, right down to the absence of the de Ghents. Scowling slightly at this though, Henry chewed his lower lip. He really should have said something about the de Ghents' treatment of Danielle the day before, but his mind had been preoccupied . . . And it would be nice for Danielle, he supposed, if he had done something about it today, but Henry was secretly relieved he didn't have to deal with it just yet. Once he married Spain and had gained some influence with his father, he would deal with the de Ghents and Danielle's position.

But just now he was preoccupied with his project, and he was able to look at the situation between Danielle and the de Ghents with objectivity. The de Ghents were merely extremely solid proof that blood, money, and power did not go hand in hand with justice, truth, and compassion, and it was becoming more and more obvious to him why so many of his people broke the laws. The laws were unjust in the first place—as More had so eloquently put it, the Crown made thieves, and punished them. . . or had it been Danielle who said that?

Henry suppressed half a smile. Danielle's ability to take an idea and run away with it, making it completely and emphatically her own, was the reason he needed her to achieve this project of his. The night before, overwhelmed by the sudden liberation he had felt as he considered all the good things he might do with his power as future king, he had suddenly remembered a phrase of hers: 'the world's possibilities', she had called them.

With instantaneous certainty he had realized that just as Danielle had helped him to turn over this new leaf of his, she might also help him nurture it. He had reviewed her ideas regarding the authorities and the concerns of the Crown and concluded she might be useful. Her love of books, words, and learning would be perfect in the implementation of the idea that had been brewing in the back of his mind . . . The idea towards which today, already, he was taking his first step. The prince was nearly giddy with expectation. He didn't realize that though he had been able to keep his thoughts away from her enchanting lips, thoughts of Danielle had still managed to put a most ridiculous grin onto his mouth.

* * *

Danielle's reaction to the monastery's library did not disappoint him. He heard her swift intake of breath, saw her chest rise, felt the sudden rush go through her. It took him aback, the intensity of it. He wished, for a brief moment, that he, just once in his life, might inspire such a reaction in such a woman. And _such _a woman she was . . .

Closing his eyes, he shook his head, and Danielle's voice broke into the disconcerting thoughts. "It makes me want to cry," she breathed, tracing the spine of a volume with a light finger.

Pride suddenly swelled within him, that he could give her this. It was sort of close, he supposed, to inspiring her the way she inspired him. "Pick one," he invited her.

"I could no sooner choose a favorite star in the heavens." Her voice was full of fervor.

He regarded her for a moment, marveling. She had described to him what it was about mere pages and ink that could interest her so, and yet her excitement now was just as engaging as it had been then. It was easily contagious, and his voice betrayed his eagerness. "What sort of books did your father read you?"

"Philosophy, science . . . anything he could get his hands on, really," she replied absently. She stepped down to the landing of the stair case, her attention still riveted to the tomes at hand.

"Perfect," he announced, and caught up both her hands in his to turn her to him.

She looked as if she was awaking from a dream. "What is?"

"You are. For my scheme," he expanded. His eyes fairly danced as puzzlement crossed her face. Finally, as if he could contain it no longer, he announced, "I want to build a university. And I want you to help me do it."

Danielle was stunned. "A university? What do you mean?"

"I want it to have the largest library on the continent, where anyone can study, no matter their station. Don't you see? It's the perfect answer to your More and your humanists. And your aspiring da Vincis and Donatellos. Anyone could attend, and over time the place will amass enough great thinkers to teach anyone and everyone anything they want to know. It will be a center of forward thinking, a haven for your artists, a forum for your philosophers . . ."

She felt overwhelmed, but not because of what he offered. It was the sight of him; she had never seen him so exuberant; he was almost . . . boyish. She didn't know whether it delighted her or distressed her, and if both, which feeling did it excite more? Not knowing what else to say, she finally stuttered, "But what do you want me for? I'm only a—"

"That's the best part," Henry went on, excited. "So, you're a commoner. Who cares?" He threw his hands up in the air. "The greatest painter, inventor, and scientist in the world is the bastard son of a peasant; he told me so himself. In Italy, the greatest artists were once street rabble. Did it make Michelangelo's 'School of Athens' any less great? Why should it be any different in France?"

"'The School of Athens' was Raphael, not Michelangelo," Danielle interjected.

"Speaking of which," Henry said contemplatively, "remind me to have that painting hung in the main hall of our university. It embodies the exact idea of it, and what more could you ask for than Socrates and Plato over-seeing the work there? I will model the whole thing after those Greek greats."

"You can't," Danielle replied, a treacherous smile creeping up the corner of her mouth.

"I can and will," Henry said decisively. "There's no one to stop me. I will one day be king, and I will have the power to change things. You said so yourself! I thought you of all people would—Why are you laughing like that?"

Hastily swallowing her giggles, Danielle told him playfully, "I was saying you can't have 'The School of Athens'. It's on a wall in the Vatican. The Pope wouldn't be pleased at having all his new rooms destroyed and hauled over to France. And anyway," Danielle continued, smile widening at the taken-aback look on his face, "I wasn't saying I wouldn't be useful to your 'scheme' because I am a commoner. I'm the one who thinks the Crown shouldn'tsuffer its people to be ill-educated." She paused a moment, and tilted her head, smirking. "Remember?"

He didn't rise to her challenge. Instead he merely gazed at her, and slowly raised a brow. "Yes, I remember," he replied, his voice low. "It was you who inspired the idea of the university in the first place."

Suddenly, Danielle felt self-conscious. She was pleased that all this time he really had been listening, that the lectures to which her run-away mouth had subjected him had not annoyed him, or even only been mere entertainment for him, but had been something he had listened to and thought about. And she was flattered that he was asking for her help; really, she was. But the way he was looking at her now—the tone in his voice . . .

For he was no longer the Crown Prince of France at all but a man; but it was more than that: he was no longer the idle and thoughtless aristocrat but an idealist willing to turn the country on its head in order to provide its people the knowledge and compassion they deserved . . . a man willing to risk everything to follow a beautiful, inspiring dream that tingled her right down to her toes. The passion and inspiration she had always thought she saw in him was pouring out of him and into her; she could feel his excitement radiating off of him as if in waves of heat, and it made her knees go weak. She wanted to melt in it, to go in the flow of it, to dance in it—being around Henry was like catching a fever. She knew her eyes were bright with the heat of it.

He was peering at her curiously. "Well then? Why don't you think you can help me?"

She met his eyes with embarrassment and chagrin. "I'm only a very good student, your Highness," she told him. "I'd be most fit for attending your university, not helping to build it."

"Why," he exclaimed, impulsively reaching for her hand again, "I'm not asking you to be the next Aristotle! I'm only asking for your advice. When I am king, I shall make you an advisor, and then you may quote More at me and call me arrogant as much as you like." He waited, chafing her hand in his and staring at her impatiently. "Well? You have to say yes. I am your prince, you know. If you're hesitating because you're a woman, I assure you, my other ministers will treat you with the highest respec—"

She snatched her hand out of his, his last comment making her forget the flutter in her heart at the words 'I am your prince'. "I don't hesitate because I am a woman," she said imperiously. "Boudicca never hesitated because she was a woman. Cleopatra never did. And if you are so keen on following Italy's example, I'll have you know the Medicis listen to their wives before they listen to their monarch's. You just keep that in mind." She lifted her head and regarded him with fiery eyes.

To hell with the Medicis. The woman before him could be a queen, if she so chose. He caught his breath at that. When he spoke, his voice was low. "Are you sure you didn't want to take up Aristotle's occupation after all?" he asked, tilting his head to one side. "You make an excellent teacher."

She hooked a grin at him. "And teach a whiney young ruler his history and metaphysics? No thank you."

He laughed at that, and they set to, making plans for his university.

* * *

A/N: -'School of Athens' is a painting by Raphael of the great Greek philosophers discussing and teaching. _Ever After_ is a bit of a trick to place on a timeline, but my guess is the time frame is after 'School of Athens' was painted. If not, sorry ;o)  
Thank you Ophelia-Rose; your review kicked my butt into posting this chapter.


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